


Momentary

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a shared moment between them. After a rainstorm. Porthos is naked, they're happy. It's quite quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Momentary

Porthos is beautiful when he's naked. Athos hasn't seen him entirely naked since they were just kids in uniform, trying not to think about what it was they were washing off their skin- gun oil, sand, dust and dirt, blood. Now, Athos is in his thirties and hasn't had reason to get covered in blood in over ten years. Except for the time he cut his hand badly enough to need stitches. He hasn't made any more attempts at fancy cooking since then. Athos leans against the wall by the window and smiles.

He's already changed into warm joggers and a loose t-shirt, his hair still wet from the rain but pulled back into a pony-tail to keep it from getting everything else wet again. Porthos pulls of his sock and stands, completely naked, in the middle of the living-room. Athos admires the muscles running up his legs, the thick soft pad of his stomach, muscle visible through the fat, the roll of it over his hip, the big shoulder. The shadows creating darknesses, contouring his body. Most beautiful, though, is the movement.

Graceful, fluid, Porthos turns to pick up the towel, muscles clenching and unclenching, moving his big body with precision and practise. The way his shoulders move when he stretches to reach his back, the way his arse tightens and tones when he shifts to get at his thighs, the way his skin and bones and muscle work to create new shapes, new rounds, new beauty. It's a work of eternal creation. New colours under new light as the sun from the window moves over Porthos's skin, new shades in the shadows, new spring in his hair as he shakes the water out.

"What?" Porthos asks, turning back to face Athos, giving him a crooked smile and putting his hands on his hips.

Athos's eyes are drawn down, to Porthos's groin. He's soft, just another part of his body, just another bit of skin and beauty. The hair there looks as soft as everywhere else, is as dark, the shadow on the swell of his thigh showing off the muscle. Athos lets his eyes travel further down, to Porthos's bare feet, his knees, the scar on the side of the left one. All the vulnerable parts of him. Up to his neck, to his eyes. Porthos looks amused.

"What?" Athos asks.

"You eyein' me up," Porthos says, shrugging, muscles across his shoulders and chest moving to create the shrug then relaxing.

"Not for anything," Athos says, quickly. Porthos's smile widens.

He tosses the towel onto the sofa and comes to Athos, body moving with the same grace as ever, arms coming up to embrace Athos, pulling him in to feel the rumble of Porthos's laughter, the soft press of him everywhere.

"You're cold," Athos says, hands splaying on Porthos's hip and back.

"Bit. I'm good. I like being naked."

"Yeah?"

"I like the sun on my skin."

They sprawl on the mat under the window, tangled together. Athos takes his clothes back off, too. He turned the heat on when they got in, so it warms up, and Porthos is right- it is wonderful to be naked in the sunshine, to feel the heat of it moving over his skin. It's also wonderful to watch Porthos breathing, listen to him laughing, to his voice.

He's only had Porthos in his life for a few months. They bumped into each other on a case, and that had been a bit rocky. They'd been working on Anne Bourbon's kidnapping, Rochefort pardoned ten years after the fact, forcing it open again. Of course it had turned out badly. Rochefort's dead, now, Aramis has Louis and quit the force, leaving Athos to work with another sergeant until d'Artagnan passed the exam. It hasn't been too bad. Samara is a solid copper. Porthos likes her, too, which Athos can't help but take into account.

Porthos, his dear Porthos, sometimes looks at Samara with a longing, jealous look. As if she's everything he wishes for himself. Not derailed by the army, by drugs, by PTSD that still causes him problems. Not caught up in the specials. Porthos is mostly out of it, now, but they still sometimes call him in for undercover work or to 'consult'. He's too good to be let go entirely. Porthos says working at the local supermarket is all he wants right now, but sometimes Athos will catch him watching Samara, and he'll recognise longing.

Not today, though. Today Porthos had looked at Samara with nothing but respect and congratulations, for a commendation for her work on their most recent case, very much deserved. They'd gone to the pub, d'Artagnan too, and Aramis had come with Louis. They sat outside in the weak sunshine and Porthos had been happy, purely happy. Then came the rain and the laughing rush for the indoors, and Athos and Porthos's leisurely walk home, Porthos dancing around the puddles, leaping, honest-to-god capering.

"You're happy?" Athos checks, running his hand over Porthos's chest, resting it on his stomach.

"I am," Porthos says. "Are you?"

"Yes."


End file.
